


I Saw The Doctor Kissing (Or Shouting At) Santa Clause

by AndreaLyn



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: It's the holiday season, which means the hospital is rife with chaos - including a brawl between Santa, his elves, and the actors of a nativity scene.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 72





	I Saw The Doctor Kissing (Or Shouting At) Santa Clause

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a holiday prompt offering.

What the fuck is happening here?” McCoy demands, walking into his ER to find his nurses, a few doctors, and what looks like half of Santa’s workshop and half of the nativity scene in a god damn Renaissance painting of chaos. There’s blood everywhere and when he steps into the fray, it quickly becomes clear where this situation began.  
  
There’s an elf stuck to a wise man with an overly large candy cane, little baby Jesus (which is a doll) is currently being hugged by a man with a black eye, and then there’s the source of the blood.  
  
At least, the main source.  
  
The man in the Santa suit (ridiculously beard and all) is bleeding from his nose along with the cuts on his knuckles. By now, the beard is a ruby red, and if any kids see this, they’re going to have a whole lot of Christmas nightmares.  
  
McCoy really hates the night shift.  
  
Still, if he doesn’t get in there soon, it’s going to be even more chaotic. “You,” he snaps to the man in the Santa costume. “In this room, with me,” he barks, and draws him away after giving the nurses and orderlies their strict instructions on what to do with the rest of them. “I don’t wanna see a hint of the holidays on my floor!” he warns.  
  
McCoy walks with the determination and purpose of a man who’s used to being followed, but he’s picked up a few tricks over the years. One of them is listening for the slow shuffle-slide of a recalcitrant patient’s movements, which is why he knows he can draw the curtain shut and his patient will be with him without turning around once.  
  
Turning, he eyes the Santa, letting his gaze slide over him with his misshaped Santa suit (and pillow padding), the crooked bloody beard, and the way he _reeks_ of rum.  
  
“Had a lot of fun tonight, didn’t you, Santa?” McCoy mutters wryly.  
  
“Please,” the man says, smirking at him. “Call me Jim. Santa’s my father’s name.”  
  
McCoy stares at him for a very long moment. “No.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Santa Junior?” He pries the beard from his hands, shaking his head as he tosses it into a small bin with all the other things that aren’t going to be saved because he’s a goddamn disaster of a man. “You wanna tell me how the brawl started?”  
  
“Wise man number two insulted one of my elves,” Jim responds.  
  
“And you decided to punch him in the face? Not so sure that’s fitting the Christmas spirit,” McCoy mutters. Once he’s got the hat and the beard off, he takes a better look at his patient. “I’m gonna need to keep you here for some stitches and then overnight for observation.”  
  
“I can’t let you do that.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure you can,” McCoy snaps. “Why not?”  
  
“Because it’s Christmas. I’m going to _miss Christmas_!”  
  
McCoy’s heard this a lot, but usually it’s from the kids in pediatrics. He’s a lot more patient with them because they’ve actually got a reason to be upset. When Jim tries to push his way out, McCoy stands in his way and pushes his hand on Jim’s shoulders to put him back into the patient bed.  
  
“Christmas or no, you’re getting these stitches. Don’t make me sit on you.”  
  
Jim’s eyes brighten as he stares at McCoy. “Um,” is all he says. “Please?”  
  
McCoy scowls and gets to work, trying to remind himself that being tired isn’t an excuse for letting his mouth run in front of beat up Santas, no matter how attractive they might be under the grime and the blood and the holidays.  
  
It takes him less than an hour to get the stitches in, which is faster than he usually works. If anyone were to ask, he’d deny that it’s because Jim’s made such a plea of needing to be out for Christmas, but deep down, he doesn’t want to be the reason that anyone misses a holiday.  
  
“I’m good to go?”  
  
“Yeah, as long as you sign papers that say you’re ignoring my advice for observation,” McCoy says, squinting at him. “What’d the wise man say to the elf to get you starting a brawl?”  
  
Jim tugs on the Santa jacket and gives McCoy a thoughtful look.  
  
“I’ll tell you later.”  
  
McCoy snorts and waves him off, figuring that he’s never going to see him again. He doesn’t even pay him much mind, other than to think how _weird_ the night shift gets near the holidays is. It’s a lucky thing he doesn’t have a family to go home to, because otherwise his poor coworkers would be here enduring this instead of him. For McCoy, he’s got nowhere else to be, so he might as well entertain the crazies and make what he can of it.  
  
The next morning, McCoy’s finally about go home for Christmas when Santa Jr comes back in.  
  
This time, the beard is gone, along with the Santa suit. It’s left a handsome as fuck man with bright blue eyes that sparkle with (and he’ll kill anyone who asks him to repeat this) holiday mirth. McCoy blames his instant attraction on the fact that he’s been up for forty-eight hours through some of the weirdest ER cases he’s ever seen in his life.  
  
“What are you doing here? I’m off shift, so if you got into another fight, find another doctor to pester,” he grumbles, tugging on his coat. “What happened to you being upset about missing Christmas? Shouldn’t you be out somewhere with your elves spreading cheer?”  
  
“I thought I’d start with San Francisco’s grumpiest doctor,” Jim says, throwing an arm over McCoy’s shoulders. “Come on. I’ve got an egg nog spiked with rum and your name all over it. If by the end of the night, you don’t believe in Christmas, then I guess I’ll have to bring out the big guns.”  
  
McCoy opens his mouth to ask what _those_ are, then he asks himself if he’s genuinely considering a mad person’s offer.  
  
“Incidentally,” Jim murmurs, his voice heavy and his breath hot as he leans in to speak to McCoy, “the wise man asked if my elf was small all over. I think you can appreciate that I couldn’t let that stand, not when someone insults my employee like that.”  
  
“Right,” McCoy snorts. “Because you’re Santa Junior.”  
  
Jim shrugs and threads his hand in with McCoy’s. “Maybe. And maybe I know that as much as you want people thinking you’re on the naughty list, you’ve never once budged off _nice_.”  
  
McCoy fumbles, but Jim keeps pulling him along.  
  
“C’mon, Bones!” he coaxes, using a nickname that no one’s called him since medical school.  
  
_How_? What…? The .. _.fuck?_  
  
Maybe this Christmas is the year something really strange and new happens in his life.


End file.
